


He Had to See About a Girl (for Jae)

by jennfics



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, TIVA - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennfics/pseuds/jennfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post-PPF; what should have happened</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Had to See About a Girl (for Jae)

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first ever tiva fic, so it's kind of special to me. Written as a birthday present in 2014 for Jae, who as usual is to blame but I love her dearly so forgiven.

“When my wife left, she took everything and started shacking up with my best friend. And when I mean everything, she even took our dog. My life literally turned into a bad country song.” An audible wince ripples through the men assembled in the circle, as the words spoken hit home with the group’s participants. “We’re listening, man. Continue,” a steady voice breaks through the rising cacophony of shuffling feet and folding chairs scraping against linoleum. “It’s been five months, and I’m not over it. I can’t get past what happened. I go home at night, get plastered, and fall asleep on the couch watching re-runs of _M.A.S.H._ I get up in the morning, shower,” he pauses, “maybe. Otherwise, I wear the clothes I slept in. Get to work. I’m usually late,” he sighs slightly, wringing his hands together in front of him as he rests his elbows on his knees. “Get yelled at by my boss because if I can’t care enough to shower, how am I supposed to care about conditional reserves and aggregate liabilities? I’m not even sure I’m wearing clean underwear.” The men in the room nod, hearing the story as a part of their collective history.

The man hangs his head, and the same steady voice breaks through once more. “We’ve all been there, Rob. My own story isn’t exactly a country-western, more like a transatlantic novella complete with English, Hebrew, and Arabic translations. What helped me,” he pauses, as Rob finally lifts his head slightly, “and what’s helped a lot of us in this room, isn’t about finding ways to move on. It’s about making peace with decisions that aren’t in your control, and taking ownership of what you can.” Heads nod in agreement around the circle. Rob looks from one man to another, skeptical. “Coming to this group is a start. Sharing what you did tonight, that’s step one man. And maybe for you, clean underwear is step two.” A Cheshire grin spreads across the man’s face, but what was once a cocky, arrogant tendency has long been replaced with an earnest kindness. The men in the group smile, standing from their chairs, slapping each other’s backs, shaking hands, even hugging, following their leader’s use of humor to ease their troubles. Rob watches each interaction carefully, still unsure if coming here tonight was the right decision.

A hand clasps onto Rob’s shoulder, and he turns to find the group’s leader standing beside him. “I’m not sure this is the right fit for me, Tony.” He sighs hard, shaking his head slightly, slipping his hands into the side pockets of his jeans.

Tony smiles. “It’s a process, man, I’m telling you. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.” Rob has only known Tony for exactly 96 minutes, but there’s something in his face and the way he focuses his attention that gives Rob the feeling like trusting Tony isn’t his worst idea ever. “Come back next week, same time. We’ll be here.” Tony claps his hand on Rob’s shoulder once more, and turns back to the rest of the group members. He shares in the back slapping, hand shaking, and hugging.

\---------

The night air is cold and deceptive to a lesser traveler. She pulls the blanket tighter, covering her exposed shoulder. She reaches a hand out to adjust the mosquito netting, ensuring it’s coverage on the side of the bed not butting the wall. She listens to the sounds of the night, a symphony of buzzes, howls, and the soft snores of the three other women who share her room. She smiles slightly as she closes her eyes, picturing a familiar face against the darkness.

She is at the end of her third assignment, the pinnacle of two years good work: six months spent in Haiti helping rape survivors scribe their stories, and in turn, find their voices; a year in Bangladesh housing, feeding, and caring for women and children rescued from slave trade; and now, the final six months in Pretoria, South Africa where she has erected walls for schools, dug wells for clean water, and held the hands of small children receiving vaccinations for the first time. She travels as a U.N. volunteer. She wears no badge, swears no allegiance. She is only two hands, one open heart, a restless spirit in search of healing. What started as penance has grown into a kind of fulfillment she had not expected, but is grateful to feel. 

She has made friends with her fellow travelers, each on their own quest for purpose or redemption. A childless mother, a widowed banker, a young married couple committed to a life of service, a former Marine who laughs when she replies fondly, “there’s no such thing as a former Marine.” She admires them all. She connects with the women and children she works with in a way that brings her closer to her faith, and restores parts of herself she had feared lost. She laughs and cries. She sings and dances. She has sore muscles, but her back straightens as her hair grows longer and her load lighter. She learns new words for soul, _nanm_ and love, _liefde_.

Two weeks before she is slated to end her time in Pretoria, she sends a letter.

\-------

“DiNozzo,” the Director’s voice booms from above his desk. He cranes his neck to look up, “my office. Now.” The Director turns on his heel, as Tony rises from his chair.

“That’s never good, Tony.” McGee chides him slightly, but Tony simply shrugs. The boss has conveniently been missing for the better part of the morning; but after a lengthy and bourbon-filled basement conversation the previous evening, Tony has an idea of what he’s walking into.

“I agree with McGee, Tony. Good luck. But if not, dibs on your Mighty Mouse stapler!” Bishop shoots a warning glance to McGee, and Tony shakes his head but says nothing. He can’t fault the kid for trying. His thoughts drift briefly to her desk’s previous resident, a woman with a similar understanding of tact. He smiles to himself, climbing the stairs two at a time.

“You can head right in, Agent DiNozzo.” Tony nods his head once in thanks to Pamela, as he turns the knob and heads into the Director’s office.

“Have a seat, Agent DiNozzo.” Tony is unsurprised to find Gibbs at one end of the conference table, and the Director at the other. What does surprise him is the Secretary of the Navy is sitting directly across from him. He wipes his hands on his pants once under the table, a nervous habit he’s never been able to kick.

“Agent DiNozzo,” the Director starts and then pauses. He looks to Gibbs, who retains his usual stone-like quality. “Tony. You may or may not be aware that Agent Gibbs has put in a formal request for his retirement. Six months from now, the MCRT will be in need of a new leader.”

Sec Nav interrupts the director, “If I may, Leon. Your track record speaks for itself Agent DiNozzo, as does the recommendation from both the Director, and your current team leader.” Tony can feel Gibbs’ eyes on him. He clenches his jaw and swallows tightly.

“What we’re trying to say here Tony,” the Director continues, drawing Tony’s gaze to him, “is we’re offering you D.C. team leader. You’ve earned this, Agent.”

Tony says nothing, turns only to Gibbs. “Boss?” But the older man only nods, then stands. He extends a hand toward Tony, who finds his throat suddenly tight. He stands as well, and two men shake on the commitment.

“Is that your acceptance, Agent DiNozzo?” Sec Nav and the Director have stood now as well.

“Yes.” Tony’s voice is steady, firm in his decision.

\------

A week later, the bullpen is buzzing as the team has closed another case. Abby, McGee, and Bishop are retelling the ins, outs, and what’s it’s to an enraptured Palmer, while Ducky is bending Gibbs’ ear on the differences between southern red oak and pin oak leaves, a key factor in solving the petty officer’s murder. Tony is at his desk, signing off on Bishop and McGee’s findings when the mail cart rolls past.

“One for you DiNozzo,” Jerry calls over this shoulder as he drops the letter on Tony’s desk. “Lots of stamps on that one.” He pushes the cart on, not looking up to see the shock on Tony’s face or the quick turn of Gibbs’ head toward the offending letter.

Tony recognizes the familiar ninjascript of the address. He turns the letter over in his hands and takes a moment of pause. He looks up and sees his boss, eyes glued to him. The rest seem to be oblivious to the thousand-word conversation occurring silently between him and Gibbs. Tony opens his top drawer to pull out his letter opener and exhales sharply at the Star of David. He glances quickly from necklace to letter before shutting the drawer.

There have been other letters, sporadic at best. He’s kept his distance, respected what she asked of him. In the course of the past two or so years, Tony has come to a few realizations. One being that he had no control in her decision. Another that he too needed to make some changes. The support group is one, as was making amends to the women who had come before her – hearts he had broken, scars he inflicted without intended malice, but had caused none the less. He invested in himself. Rediscovered his reasons for being a cop; fell into the position of leadership that was familiar, yet terrifying; and mended his relationship with his father slowly, through forgiveness for the man and for himself. He apologizes. He tries. He restarts. He commits.

The letter has only two lines. The first is an address. The second: _I am ready if you are._

The elevator dings as several people exit on to their floor. It’s a split second decision. Tony is up from his chair, throwing his gun and badge into the desk drawer with a slam. The team turns to look at him. “Tony?” Abby steps toward him, concerned at his wild appearance. But he just smiles, wider than she’s seen in years. She steps back, a smile on her lips because she knows.

 

Tony points to McGee, “ _Sean, if the professor calls about that job, just tell him, sorry, I have to go see about a girl._ Matt Damon, Good Will Hunting, 1997.” He grabs his bag and breaks into a run, heading straight for the open elevator door. He nearly barrels into the two other employees still in the waiting elevator, although he only has time for one apology. “Sorry, boss,” he calls over his shoulder, heard just as the door to the elevator closes with a ding.

The team stands open-mouthed, each looking from the elevator doors and back to one another. Gibbs is the first to move, turning back to his desk.

“Boss?” a shocked McGee turns to their stoic leader, and sees a smile spread across his taciturn-on-a-good-day face.

“You heard him, McGee. He had to see about a girl. Back to work.”

\--------

_Six months later…_

The team is assembled in the briefing room, sitting patiently in the rows of chairs at the front. He nervously wipes his hands across his pants. She watches him from the corner of her eye, lips turned up slightly. She reaches toward him, her fingers wrapping round his and holding tightly. He turns his head to face her, and catches her smile.

“I saw that, Sweetcheeks,” he whispers into her ear, as he places a quick kiss to her cheek. Ziva chuckles quietly as she replies, “this is a happy day, my love. I am allowed to smile.”

“Agent DiNozzo,” the Director announces, “will you please join us at the front of the room?”

Tony stands, kissing her hand before he releases and walks toward the men and women assembled in a line. The Director shakes his hand, as he turns to the standing-room only crowd.

“As you are all aware, Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs has retired. I am pleased to announce his replacement as Major Case Response Team Leader, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, Junior.” The crowd erupts in applause. He shakes hands again with the Director, Sec Nav, and the various ceremonial VIPs.

As he steps into the crowd, he’s crushed in an Abby-hug, followed by several awkward embraces from Palmer and Bishop. Ducky shakes his hand warmly, and grips his forearm with a corresponding “well done, my boy!”

He turns to McGee, who offers his hand. Tony pulls his probie into a hug, and as he pulls away, clasps his hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Tim.” McGee is stunned by the outward affection, but smiles as he returns, “thank you, Tony.”

She waits to the side. Her eyes, full of pride and blatant affection, follow him as he makes his way around the room, shaking hands and accepting the occasional embrace. As he strides over to her, she smiles. His hands find her waist, as her arms wrap around his shoulders. She whispers her congratulations into his ear, and he buries his face into her neck. He pulls away only when he hears a throat clear loudly.

“Agent DiNozzo, sir…uh…sorry to interrupt.” The junior agent stumbles on his words, realizing he’s walked into a rather private moment.

“What is it, Hall?” Tony’s annoyance is abated only by Ziva’s hand rubbing circles on his back.

“Call for you in MTAC, sir. From Mexico.”


End file.
